English Work
by amzzz123
Summary: Any original writing our class has been set.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N;** Okay, the idea here was to create a monologue based on Lord of the Flies (which I do not own) by William Golding, which also had to include stage directions.

* * *

*_Ralph is lying in bed, trying to sleep. He sits up and flips his pillow over before lying back down. He is in a room in the ship that rescued the boys from the island_*

It's really difficult trying to sleep on a bed, after spending so long in the shelters. I can barely remember how to read, and food all tastes too salty now. All I want to eat is fruit and pig. *_Sits up_* We've all had our hair cut since we got on the ship, and, while it's nice to see clearly, my head feels too bare. I keep reaching up to brush it out of my eyes. *_Brushes at forehead_*

I really can't recognise anyone any more. They've turned back into the schoolboys they were before they became hunters and savages. *_Counts on fingers_* I've seen Maurice, and Roger, and a few of the littluns. Most of the time I talk to Samneric. We try to ignore what happened on the island, so instead we talk about going home, and maybe what the weather's like.

*_Pause_*Jack's been about, as well. He seems bitter about loosing his control over the rest of the boys, and I've seen him yelling at the littluns, trying to get them to follow orders. They ignore him now, of course. They have the protection of the crew, now. Jack can't make them do anything.

Most of his choir ignore him, I think they're scared of what he'll do if he gets that power back, and they regret following him now that they're back in civilisation. It's a bit late, though. *_looks around the room sadly_*

It must be really frustrating for Jack to have all that control taken away from him, and to now have to follow adults again. I don't think he wanted to go home from the island, I mean, why would he? He was in charge, he could do as he pleased, and he had all the respect he'd ever need. *_Pause_* I also think he's slowly realizing what he did.

*_Gets up and walks over to the window and looks outside_* He keeps talking to me, as if he wants to apologize, but doesn't know how too. He talks about small, unimportant things, like where we think our parents might be, or about our homes and where we lived before the war. I snapped at him one time, telling him to stop acting like nothing's happened, or like he hadn't tried to kill me.

He sort of hung his head, and told me he doesn't know what else to do. *_shrugs_* Apparently I'm the closest thing he has to a friend right now, which I suppose is true. We were getting to be good friends before the whole _kill-the-beast _problem started.

I don't mind him speaking to me; it's nice to see a normal Jack again. Even so, I don't think I'll ever forget the other side to him, or the rest of the world, for that matter. Humans are a lot crueller and harsher than everyone thinks.

I know I'll never forget Piggy or Simon. I have to remember them; it's only fair. I watch their deaths every day, because I have to remember that I could have saved them, if only I'd listened to what they had to say. *_hangs head_*

Because Simon didn't have to die, and neither did Piggy. They both died horrible, terrible deaths. Simon just tried to make us to see past the beasties and the hunting, and Piggy just wanted to be accepted, and tried to show us we were all a bunch of kids. But it didn't matter. None of us listened to either of them, because, in the end, Jack was right; in this world there are people who are meant to obey and follow orders, and those who are meant to do all the talking and commanding. I had the chance to be one of the talkers, and I could've- should've- listened to them. *_pause, shakes head sadly_* Simon knew there wasn't a beast, and Piggy knew that we were all being silly little children. I- I never even knew Piggy's real name…. *_sits on bed slowly and buries head in hands_*


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N; **Again, we had to write a monologue, but without the stage directions this time (thankfully). this time it was based on "vultures", by Chinua Achebe

The poem "vultures" belong to Chinua Achebe, not me :)

* * *

**Vultures**

_In the greyness and drizzle of one despondent_

_dawn unstirred by harbingers of sunbreak a vulture_

_perching high on brokenbone of a dead treenestled close to hismate his smoothbashed-in head, a pebbleon a stem rooted in_

_a dump of gross feathers, inclined affectionately to hers. Yesterday they picked the eyes of a swollen corpse in a water-logged trench and ate the things in its bowel. Full gorged they chose their roost_

_keeping the hollowed remnant in easy range of cold telescopic eyes ...Strange indeed how love in other ways so particular will pick a corner_

_in that charnel-house, tidy it and coil up there, perhaps even fall asleep - her face_

_turned to the wall!...Thus the Commandant at Belsen Camp going home for the day with fumes of human roast clinging rebelliously to his hairy nostrils will stop at the wayside sweet-shop and pick up a chocolate for his tender offspring waiting at home for Daddy's return ...Praise bounteous providence if you will that grants even an ogre a tiny glow-worm tenderness encapsulated in icy caverns of a cruel heart, or else despair_

_for in every germ of that kindred love is lodged the perpetuity of evil._

**

* * *

**

It's cold here. It's really, really cold. I've been cold for so long, but I'm getting colder still now.

It's been so long since I really felt warm; you would've thought I'd forgotten the difference, and yet here I am, colder still.

I can hardly remember anything but this place. I could have been here for months, but it feels more like years. Playing with mama and papa, with my brothers and our friends out on the street is almost forgotten.

I should have forgotten how to tell the difference between being too warm and being to cold, but instead I have forgotten the things which are most important to me.

I haven't seen papa since the first train ride. That was when it was much too hot. He had to leave mama and I, my brothers left with him too. He smiled- just like he always did, on birthdays, when he came home from work, whenever he saw us- but he was crying too, they all were.

I miss them, my family and friends, I miss them a lot.

I wander if they are also so cold that they cannot feel their hands? I hope the guards will finish speaking and take us in again. It isn't warm indoors, either, but it isn't freeze-until-your-hands-drop-off cold like this is. The working-place is the warmest, but maybe we just don't have time to stop working and check to see if it's cold.

I would try, but I think they might shoot me.

Mama is squeezing my shoulders now. I'm stood in front of her, on the front row, as we are usually arranged. Mama gently pushes me forward, towards a lady-guard who has a group of children with her, a group that I am joining now. Some of the lady-guards are nicer than the men, but others know how to be even nastier. I dare to take a glance up at her. She is smiling at us, but her eyes aren't happy. I shiver from something different to cold, and I try to turn to mama for comfort, but she is gone, she had to leave us and go back inside with the others.

The not-smiley lady leads us across the place they call "Belsen". We call it hell.

She opens a door to one of the larger buildings, and harshly guides us in. She'd lost her smile as we walked, and I am not sure if she is more or less scary now.

We are told to wait at the end of a corridor. It's warmer here, so much warmer. There are two guards watching us now, and as we wait they complain about how cold the corridor is. I don't. I haven't been this warm since the day they brought us to this place, and I slowly stomp the feeling back into my feet, and blow it into my hands.

Not-smiley lady is back again, now with a woman who looks more like a hawk than human, and the big nosed leader-man.

They're taking the girl who was nearest to them into another room. After a few minutes she leaves, and another girl is sent in. They call another child in before the second girl leaves, and this next girl walks out with tears in her eyes.

I am the twelfth girl to enter the room, and I am still thinking over how the second girl still hasn't left- along with three others- when the leader-man and hawk-lady sit me down and speak.

Well, hawk-lady doesn't talk, she watches from the back of the room. It's very dark in here; I wish they would turn another light on, but I daren't voice my complaint.

Leader-man asks me to tell him about anyone who went to the synagogue and isn't here. I don't say anything. Is this one of those times when I can talk? Or will they beat me for opening my mouth?

Hawk-lady speaks, her voice like a vulture screeching in my ears. She's telling me to speak, but I want to tell her to shut up.

Leader-man speaks again; he says that a little child might be given a nice gift if I answered him. He's planning on buying some chocolate today, but only if I tell him the answer. Chocolate! I can remember chocolate, it's sweet and soft, and my mouth waters as I think of it.

I nod tentatively, and speak. I tell them about the lady who lived across the road to us, Mrs Eckstein, who used to garden make cakes a lot. We would go to her house after school, and she would give us cake. I tell them about Mr and Mrs Gillerman, the old couple who lived at the bottom of the road, and owned a black and white cat.

Leader- man is smiling when I finish, but he's scary now. Hawk-lady grabs my arm and nearly pulls it out of my socket. She calls me a dirty traitor, and as she pulls me I look back at Leader-man, who is saying his son will be very happy about the chocolate he will eat tonight.

There are bundles at the back of the room. I can see them now my eyes have adjusted to the dark, and one or two begin to move and whimper. Hawk-lady sees me looking and smirks. She says that it is probably better for me that I am a dirty traitor, and suddenly I know what happened, and what will happen to the four girls who didn't come back.

I'm working again, but I'm not going to stop to see how cold it is. They might shoot me.

There are new arrivals walking by now. I feel a lurch of pity for them. A few nights ago, they were probably safely lying in their beds.

There are familiar faces in this crowd. Mrs Eckstein! Why is she here? I'm smiling because I know her, but it's horrible really, because it was better when she wasn't here. And there's Mrs Gillerman, but she doesn't have her cat, and she looks very ill.

They're being taken to the smoke-building, the place you know you want to AVOID at all cost. The place where the four little girls ended up the other evening. My heart sinks, and almost falls through my stomach.

It's cold here. It's really, really cold.


End file.
